Strays
by Twinings
Summary: One almost has to wonder if they have some kind of precedent for this...more importantly, what will the Riddler say? [CAT]


Disclaimer: I do not own any Batman-related characters. I do own at least a third of CAT, maybe more...probably not less. If you're new to this series, you really should begin at the beginning, or at least with "Posterity."

CAT timeline can be viewed at www. freewebs. com/ catverse. html (_no spaces!_) This story takes place between "Letters From the Front" and "Screams in the Night."

* * *

Strays

It had been a rough week. Techie was bloody, the Captain was bruised, Al was exhausted…but the Riddler was unscathed, and likely to remain that way. Thus, their work was done.

Which left them rather at loose ends. Not that they really minded. A few days with nothing to do but rest and recover couldn't be bad. But after a few days—and this couldn't be helped—they were going to start wondering about their future. They could only go on living off Dear Edward's charity for so long without starting to feel useless. And he was lying low after his recent scare, with no plans for the immediate future that would have involved employing them as his gang.

Finally, he was willing to take them on, and there was nothing for them to do. Cooking for him was all well and good…for the Captain and Techie, anyway. They wouldn't let Al join in. And cleaning his "borrowed" apartment took up the better part of a day, but again, the domestically challenged Al found this outside the scope of her abilities. There were no rubber gloves thick enough to induce her to attempt the scrubbing of his toilet.

But there was one thing she could do for him, and that was laundry. So she found herself walking down the street to the local laundromat with a bottle of Gain in one hand and a bag of very incriminating laundry slung over her back. If anyone got a look at what was in her bag, she was going to be in a lot of trouble. Maybe…she could always claim she needed the Riddler suits for a costume party…or a convention…or a movie. She and the Captain had been putting off shooting that mockumentary for years now.

The streets were fairly empty, despite the relatively pleasant weather on this sunny January afternoon. The temperature was just slightly above freezing, right where she liked it. She had the opportunity to wear her favorite coat, which was falling apart and would probably have to be retired soon, despite the fact that the weather at home was rarely cold enough to give the thing hard use. The sidewalk was iced over, which had come as quite a surprise the first time she had stepped outside. Her balance wasn't exactly stellar even when her footing was sure. Now she was having some trouble, but not enough that she couldn't still consider it a grand adventure.

This particular laundromat had caught their attention the first moment they saw it, with its cheerful sign proclaiming its name as "McBubbles." It was nothing special on the inside, with its cracked and dirty chairs, headache-inducing lighting, and positively ancient machines, which tended to eat quarters more often than they actually worked. But there was one washer that worked for Al (and apparently only Al) without quarters, so everything evened out.

She wrenched the door open (nearly falling flat on her ass in the process) and scanned the inside for potential trouble. If someone was using her machine, there was going to be hell to pay. But there was no one there. No one at all.

Weird. She had never seen Gotham this deserted, even in the bad part of town immediately following a villainous incident. And there had been no highly visible incidents in that general area in all the time she had been there.

Oh, well. Maybe everyone was at a football game. Or basketball, or whatever sport was in season. She didn't keep up with anything but hockey, and as far as that went, Gotham had nothing much to offer. It was a shame, really. Most people in the public eye couldn't be paid enough to affiliate themselves with this city. That left them with a few gems of thrillseeking talent (athletic and otherwise) overshadowed by dozens of mediocre colleagues who were only there because they didn't have the sense God gave a goose, and thought nothing bad could ever happen to a celebrity.

Sure, there could be perfectly good reasons for these people to come to the most dangerous city in America, but Al wasn't inclined to make allowances for other people's idiocy. She also wasn't inclined to consider the fact that she was throwing herself into far more danger than the average actor or athlete, attaching herself to the Riddler and sharing his enemies and his friends, of which there were far more of the former than the latter.

She glanced around the inside of the laundromat again, considering the possibility that it might be so eerily silent because someone was lying in ambush. Had she established a pattern, coming here to do her laundry? She had only been there a couple of times before, and she didn't think she had been followed…but there was always the possibility. It was safer to assume that she had been. Better paranoid and alive than naïve and dead.

She kept an eye out for any sign of life, prepared to waste her precious Gain in use as a weapon if it came to that…but no one came running out of the shadows at her, even when she was bent over, conspicuously vulnerable as she tossed four people's laundry into the machine (with everything green neatly shoved into the back, because that was going to do _so_ much to help hide it.)

It was almost a disappointment. How the hell was she supposed to keep up the paranoia thing if no one was actually out to get her?

Still, there was no denying the creepiness of the completely deserted laundromat. Maybe she should go get some coffee to kill time. God knew there wasn't anything else to do.

She banged her fist against the coin slot, and the washing machine grudgingly rattled to life. (Just like the Fonz. Or the She-Fonz. 'Eyyy!)

Reflexively, Al glanced up at the TV. It would be nice if she had something worth watching…but, no, the thing was tuned to the weather channel, with the volume so low she could barely hear it. She glared balefully up at the staticky little box. Her two partners in crime weren't _that_much taller than she was, but at times like these she would have welcomed those extra couple of inches, if only because they probably would have been able to reach the buttons. There was no way she was climbing up on a chair to do it—situations like that always ended badly for her.

And between boredom and paranoia, she wasn't going to be able to stay in there without losing her mind. (The irony of that statement was not lost on her.)

And so, Al made the most momentous decision she was likely to face that day: she decided to go for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.

Stepping outside the building, Al looked both ways down the street, trying to remember where the good coffee shop actually was.

It was then that she stumbled onto the first indication that she hadn't wandered into the final scenes of an apocalyptic zombie film.

There were sounds of a scuffle coming from the nearest dark alley. It wasn't in her nature to let that kind of thing go without investigation.

True to form, she found a group of teenagers in matching leather jackets (adhering to some dress code whose deep significance Al had never really cared to learn) beating up on a scrawny little boy who couldn't have been more than twelve or so.

It wasn't in her nature to let that go, either. She picked up a long piece of wood that had once been part of the railing on somebody's front steps, and waded into the fray.

Now, a random, half-rotted stick was, without a doubt, going to lack the solid weight of a lead pipe, or the glorious versatility of a shovel, but she thought she could get her point across. There were only three of them, after all, and they weren't that much bigger than she was. And she did, for the moment, have the element of surprise.

The stick disappointed her by splintering when she cracked it across the back of Snot Nosed Punk Number One's head. He, however, did not disappoint.

The other two wasted precious time staring at their friend as he dropped like a ball thrown by a particularly inept bowler. She brought her stick up at Snot Nosed Punk Number Two's nose, and was more than satisfied by the crack it made when it broke—the nose, that is, not the stick. He stumbled back, clutching at his face as blood poured out from behind his hands.

"Bitch! What the hell is your problem?" (At least, that was what she assumed he was saying. It was all a bit garbled.)

"I think you should learn to pick on someone your own size," she said. Snot Nosed Punk Number Two looked angry. Clearly, he wasn't the brightest cookie in the crayon box. Snot Nosed Punk Number Three, however, looked…concerned. He was the one she was going to have to watch out for.

"You should learn to stay out of things that don't concern you."

"Should I, now?" As expected, Snot Nosed Punk Number Two rushed her. She brought her stick up in the laziest manner possible without losing the "savage beating" aspect of the motion. It stopped him, temporarily at least, but the stick snapped in half on impact with his stomach, leaving her with a useless chunk of wood.

She threw it at Snot Nosed Punk Number Three's head. He batted it away.

It occurred to her that she might not have thought this through.

Then the kid popped up and tackled Snot Nosed Punk Number Three from behind. Al grinned and turned her full attention to Snot Nosed Punk Number Two.

He wasn't exactly in tip-top shape, she was happy to note. Served him right for picking on a helpless little kid.

(Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the helpless little kid slam Snot Nosed Punk Number Three's face into a wall.)

Snot Nosed Punk Number Two, in spite of everything else, seemed to be suffering from some residual chivalry. It was always amusing to fight the ones who had been taught not to hit girls. This one, instead of throwing a punch, tried to grab her by the shirt. She didn't even have to think about her reaction. She caught his wrist, turned it, stepped behind him, and exerted the tiniest bit of pressure, dropping him to his knees.

"What were you saying?" she asked sweetly. He screamed in pain. "What's that? Speak up, now."

"Let me go!"

"Hmm…I could do that. But why should I? You'll only go and do something incredibly stupid, either to me, or to my friend here."

"I won't!"

"Sure, you won't. What's your name?" He didn't answer. She changed the angle of his wrist. "Name?"

"Denny!"

"How old are you, Denny?"

"Fifteen," he said sullenly.

"Fifteen?" Al taunted. "My, my. You're almost a lady. But fifteen is a little young to die, and I'm rather fond of these shoes, so if you'll promise to be a good little boy, I'll let you go, and we can avoid the mess. What do you think? Can you be good?" He growled at her. "I can beat the living shit out of you some more, if you want."

He didn't respond, so she just held him in that very uncomfortable position and watched as the kid did his best to beat Snot Nosed Punk Three silly.

The boy's technique was just awful. His blows weren't connecting with even half the force he was capable of, and he clearly had no idea where to hit to maximize the effect. Still, he seemed quite taken with the joy of violence. Like a Jedi seeking her Padawan (or perhaps a Sith seeking an apprentice) she sensed potential in this scrawny, unfinished little boy. She might even go so far as to say she recognized some kind of kinship between the two of them.

She would deny that later, of course. A kid beating on someone twice his size was still a kid, and she mixed with children about as well as gasoline with matches. Even when the results were pretty, there was generally nothing left intact once they were done.

With that in mind, she decided to call an early halt to the relatively one-sided fight.

"Hey, kid," she said. "The human fist can only do so much. Pick up something and hit him with it."

The kid didn't even seem to react to the sound of her voice, but in the next instant, he stooped to pick up the longer piece of her broken stick.

It was over in moments.

Al looked down at Denny, Snot Nosed Punk Number Two, who had started crying and was trying to hide it. Pitiful. Show a little subtlety in a fight, and the brat couldn't take it. What was the world coming to?

She let him go.

"Get the hell out of here, Denny, or we'll both kick your ass."

He looked at her, looked at the kid, looked back at her…and turned tail and ran. Al just laughed and turned to the kid, ready to be thanked so she could be on her way.

"Why'd you let him go?" the kid demanded.

Oh, unbelievable. Obviously, someone had skipped charm school.

"What's the point in keeping him around? Besides, now all his friends are going to know that he got beat up by a girl, and then he ran away. What's worse punishment than that? I'm Al, by the way." The kid glared at her, then wiped his sleeve across his bloody nose.

"That doesn't sound like a girl's name."

"It's not. Not my real name, anyway. A friend gave it to me." The kid snorted.

"That's stupid." Al just shrugged.

"So is fighting with a bunch of guys who could eat your face for breakfast. Try to stay out of trouble, will you? I don't want to make a habit out of saving annoying, ungrateful little brats for no good reason. What if word got out? People might think I was…nice."

The kid looked at her for the first time then, really looked at her, flashing a pair of big blue eyes for a split second before he looked away and muttered a reluctant, "Thanks."

And Al was floored.

There was just something about eyes like that…she couldn't resist. Big blue eyes in a thin, pale face covered in blood (most of it his) just screamed to her to take care of him. And she knew exactly why, too. Damn it. He was a little Squishykins. A Squishlet. And he needed a hug. And a sandwich.

And the fact that he clearly didn't want her hugs (although the sandwich, he probably wouldn't turn down) only made it worse.

"Hey, kid." Oh, God, this was awkward. Uncomfortable. Utterly against her nature. But she had time to kill. "Do you need help getting home?" He shrugged.

"What home?"

And now she wanted to hug him even more.

"Um…are you…hungry?"

He looked up at her again, clearly torn, sensing a trap.

"I guess so." Al grinned helplessly.

"Want to go for ice cream?"

0

Techie and the Captain blocked Al's entrance to the apartment when she finally returned, laundry in hand. She had just enough time to note that things had gone from musty to lemony-fresh before they crowded her out into the hall and shut the door behind them.

"Who's that?" the Captain demanded, glaring (rather ineffectively) at the chocolate- and blood-covered boy at Al's side.

"He followed me home. Can I keep him?"

"No! You can't just bring strays back to the—the—the lair!"

Al turned her puppydog eyes on Techie.

"Please?"

"No way."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to end up being the one feeding him, and walking him, and loving him."

"But, look at him!" She turned the eyes back to the Captain. "He's so cute!"

"Al!" the Captain protested, visibly wavering. "You know Eddums will say no."

"Does he even want to stay with us?" Techie added. "Not everyone is cut out for the criminal element."

"I don't need your help," the kid said. They all ignored him.

"Please?" Al repeated. "I want him."

"You wanted that snake, too, but we didn't get him." Al turned on the high beams.

"I'm not the only one who wanted to play mommy to a ball python. You're the one who named him Fred."

"You named him Fred," the Captain corrected. "And a boy is not a cuddly-wuddly snaky-pet."

"I really don't…" They continued to ignore the kid.

"Put him back where you found him," Techie insisted. "You can play with him all you want, but he's not coming inside. We're supposed to be hiding."

With a sigh, Al turned to face her newfound friend.

"They're mean."

"We're not mean, we're sensible." The looks they were giving him seemed to indicate that they didn't even want to be that anymore. Al ignored them both and smiled at the boy.

"You're going to be somebody in this town someday," she said. "With or without my help. Or theirs. And when you make it, I want you to look me up."

"I'll never be anybody," he said. "Normal people don't wear masks."

"Who said anything about that? Look, you've got something you know how to do. So do it. Do it bigger and better than everybody else, and you'll be big. And don't let anybody in a mask scare you. Except maybe the Scarecrow. You kind of can't help that one." She was extremely gratified when the kid actually laughed. "So, anyway…ice cream? Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah…I'll show up if I feel like it."

She grinned.

"Stand me up and I'll never speak to you again."

The Captain and Techie managed to wait until the three of them were inside the apartment and the door was closed before they both gave her identical, rather frighteningly eloquent looks.

Al looked back and forth between the two of them for a few moments. All they did was stare back, highly amused. She sighed.

"Shut. Up."


End file.
